Till to his sister's [1] arms he flies,
And, wide-expanded to the skies,
On oozy bed supinely lies.-
Again behold him raise his head,
As if awaken'd from the dead,
Plumb down the rock of Skelwith dash,
With hoarse reverberated crash;
And, boist'rous boiling from below,
Again across the peaceful meadows flow.

So the lorn maniac, in his moods,
Sullen o'er his sorrows broods;
With unaverted eye, he strays
Along the lonely desert ways,
With solemn, measur'd, thoughtful pace,
Despair depicted in his face:
Then starts, and with a stedfast gaze,
Replete with horror and amaze,
From rock to rock, from steep to steep,
Reckless he takes the dangerous leap;
Then scours along the level plain
Till, all his strength exhaust again,
He sinks upon the earth's cold breast,
Toil-worn, to take his broken rest.

But, Rothay, you a gentler tide,
Serenely through the valleys glide.
Peaceful Grasmere's wooded hills,
Pour forth for you their tinkling rills.